Vines
by silver thorns
Summary: He moves with all the fluidity and grace of a dancer - shiny, polished shoes seeking their place between the vines woven into the doubtlessly priceless carpet. Odd, she thinks, how he never steps on them.  Post TP


**G'day, folks. Thought I'd try and get back into the swing of things after goodness knows how long. I'm a little rusty, so don't hesitate to offer suggestions/point out anything that sounds horrendously awkward. This takes place sometime between AF: TP and AF: AC (tried to keep it canon - there're hints towards AC dotted here and there.) Throughout the whole of TP there was one tiny, niggling thought at the back of my head - why was Arty so careful not to step on the vines on the carpet? He's a rational kid, so why the superstition? And lo, a fic was born.**

**Without further ado, I present: Vines.**

* * *

_~ Step on a vine, count to nine ~_

Holly Short loves flying. Really, truly loves it. No matter the taint of pollution, no matter the endless glare of lights from the Mud Men that forgot how to sleep, _nothing_ can ruin the pleasure of soaring over the seas, flying so high she fancies she could pluck stars like diamonds from a dwarf mine. It's glorious.

_What would've happened, _she wonders, not for the first time, _if the People had stayed and fought?_

Well, they wouldn't be stuck underground for a start, breathing recycled air in a city that had never seen sunlight. They wouldn't be struggling to stay alive, clinging on desperately to the one place that remained free of human taint, scraping together an existence made of paranoia and fear. And she wouldn't be here, flying towards a manor that had almost become a second home to her. As she watches it appear on the edge of the horizon, looming severely over the landscape, she realises that its inhabitants wouldn't be around either. She tries to ignore the feelings that brings.

Pulling her arms close to her body, she tilts herself forward into a dive. Oh, to be flying without her Recon helmet! To feel the wind whipping against her face, tangling in her hair, roaring in her ears! It is these moments, plummeting to the earth at breakneck speeds, that she dreams of at night, trapped beneath the earth. The ground leaps up towards her, threatening to flatten her for ever daring to be so foolish, and at the last possible second she pulls out of the dive, feeling the yank in her shoulders as the wings strain to save her from certain death. The tip of her boots brush against the dew-damp grass, and then she's rising gently into the air, the screeching of the wing motors now a soothing hum. Foaly'll kill her for that stunt, but dear _Frond_ it's worth it. Hovering just outside the manor's perimeters, she pulls a face and wipes away the smears from her visor - all that remained of the bugs that couldn't get out of the way fast enough.

_Perhaps_, she reflects,_ it was better to wear the helmet after all._

Floating leisurely towards the manor, she turns on the com-link just in time to hear Foaly's lecture.

"What on _Earth_ were you thinking, Holly? Do you have any idea how much damage that does to the wings? Those are delicate works of art, you can't just treat them like...like...AAUGH! I swear, you Recon jocks are all the same! No appreciation for genius, it's because of people like you that we..." With a roll of her eyes, she turns down the volume and lets him rant on in the background. He's brilliant and fantastic and she loves him to bits, but there's only so much an elf can take.

By the time she's finally located the side of the manor Artemis' room is meant to be (honestly, how many rooms did one family need? The whole of Police Plaza could probably fit in there!), Foaly's shouting has quietened to occasional mutterings and the furious _crunchcrunchcrunch _of a carrot.

"As much as I'd love to listen to you eat, Foaly, I'm sort of busy right now. Call you back?" She grins as he launches into another tirade, and mutes him.

Aaah. Sweet, blessed silence. Now, time to find Arty's room.

She's flying around for a good few minutes before something catches her eye - a glimmer of light peeking out from between heavy drapes. Curious, she flies a little closer.

It takes a moment for her to realise where she is - just outside the Fowl Seniors' room. Looking through the gap in the curtains, she is transported to a moment all those years ago, when she had first found herself face to face with a woman gripped with insanity and a desperate longing for a husband long lost.

There lies Angeline now, pale and frail and ghostlike, almost swallowed up by the huge bed with the crisp white sheets. She seems so fragile that Holly is afraid that at any moment the harsh, laboured breathing will cease forever. Since the run-in with Koboi, Angeline has been confined to her bedroom, too weak to do aught but sleep. The pseudo-Spelltropy has taken its toll on her body, and the possession has wrecked her mentally.

But she will recover; she is a Fowl, after all, a family born of strength and perseverance. She _has_ to recover. Holly knows that Artemis won't be able to handle it otherwise. He puts on a brave, apathetic demeanour, but she can hear it in his voice even over the crackle of terrible above-to-below ground reception; for all his intelligence and maturity, he is still a boy, and he is still terrified of losing a parent for a third time.

There's movement on the other side of the room, and her sharp eyes immediately pick up on the turning of the handle.

She watches as the door opens slowly, and as she sees the figure behind it she freezes. It's foolish, utterly ridiculous - the reactions of a child half her age (_he can't see me, I'm shielded, he can't see me,_) - but she quietens her breathing all the same, holding it as his eyes sweep the room. His face is that of an adolescent, but his eyes are older than hers; not for the first time, she wonders if he ever laughed when he was younger.

His mismatched gaze falls on his mother, and carefully he begins to pick his way towards the bed. He moves with all the fluidity and grace of a dancer - shiny, polished shoes seeking their place between the vines woven into the doubtlessly priceless carpet. _Odd,_ she thinks, _how he never steps on them._ But as he reaches the bed he glances up at the window - _up at her_ - and all rational thought flees as she jacks the thrusters to max and rockets away.

There is no way he could have known she was there. Human eyes aren't capable of seeing a shielded fairy. She was invisible.

So later, as she's hiding in his study, watching him work, and he swivels round in his office chair with a vampire smile and a 'good evening, Holly,' she's understandably shocked. She doesn't let it show, though - unshielding, she takes off her helmet and gives him a cheeky grin and a wave.

He leans back, all quiet charm and hospitality, eyes dancing with a smile he doesn't quite let reach his lips. A long, slender hand gestures to the armchair beside her. "And to what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Oh, nothing much." She sits down, panicking slightly as the ridiculously comfy chair threatens to swallow her whole. "Just a check-up to make sure you're not planning anymore nefarious deeds. After the whole time travel thing the Council is getting a bit wary of you." She takes a cursory sweep of his study as she says this, eyes sharp and on the lookout for evidence of said deeds. Surprisingly, the ordinarily meticulous room has papers and tools scattered all over the place. There's probably an order to the chaos, but if so it's one only he can understand.

"I had everything under control," he objects somewhat peevishly.

"Yeah," she snorts, "I'm sure letting Opal escape was all part of the master plan."

He grimaces slightly. "That was, I admit, unexpected. But look at it this way, if you will; I prevented her past self from obtaining god-like powers _and_ saved a species from extinction. Surely that warrants some goodwill towards me?"

She sighs, but doesn't mention that it was his doing that drove the lemur to extinction in the first place. "The Council don't trust you, Artemis, and with good reason. You manipulate everything and everyone around you, you hardly - if ever - tell the truth, you put everyone's life at risk-"

He's quick to cut her off. "A necessity. I do what I must to reach the objective."

"What, like cutting off a man's thumb, or making your _best friend_ believe she had infected your mother with the most deadliest disease known to fairykind?"

"Not that you're still bitter about that or anything," he says with an arched eyebrow and a wry grin.

Huffing, she crosses her arms and scowls. "Of course not," she grumbles, glaring at her feet. The sting of betrayal is still as painful as it was at the start, and she won't let it heal - she picks away at it like a scab, daring it to leave a scar.

"At least this time no one was shot," he murmurs softly. At this she looks up at him - he sounds so vulnerable, so young - and sees the ghosts of past actions haunting his eyes. For a moment she contemplates comforting him but the wound has started to bleed. She manages to convince herself that he'd only brush her away.

Barely.

They sit in silence for a long, long time. The soft hum of computers, punctuated by the soft tick of the clock, wash over her, lulling her into an almost trance-like state. A question hangs on her lips, but she can't bring herself to ask it; is too scared to find out the answer.

His voice, when he finally breaks the silence, is as careful as his steps in his mother's room. "Holly, what do you want to ask me?"

Her head shoots up as she stares at him in wide-eyed surprise. "H-how did you...?"

The change in his posture as he relaxes into his chair, hands steepled before him, does not escape her - at last, he is in familiar territory. "Several signs, the most obvious being the way you keep looking up, as if about to speak, before stopping again. I know it's not urgent business, or you would simply come out with it. The constant fiddling with your copy of the Booke suggests nervousness, and so the logical conclusion is that you wish to ask me something. Unless, of course," he smirks, "you are about to declare your undying affection for me?"

She glares at him, willing the awful, creeping blush away from her cheeks. He chuckles slightly, and nope, there's no hope for it now - she's sure her face is hot enough to roast potatoes. But she can't ask him, not yet, not now, and so pulls the first thing that comes to mind. "Why do you never step on the vines in your parents' room?"

His face twists into a slight frown - obviously it's not the question he was expecting. "It's...well, it's a little embarrassing to be honest. When I was very small, my father used to chant an old rhyme whenever I came into their room. _'Step on a vine, count to nine.'_ A childish superstition, but one I followed nevertheless for my father's sake. Now it seems to have become a habit, and one I'd rather not break at the moment."

"Why not?"

I don't know if you have noticed, Holly, but my luck has not been...blessed, as of late. And with this new project coming up, it is imperative that I have all the good fortune I can get. I can't afford for this to fail, and if that means watching where I step, then so be it."

The thought of the rational-minded child genius before her believing in such superstitions worries her, but that is nothing compared to the news of a potential Fowl fiasco. It's enough to disturb anyone. "New project? What are you working on? Oh Frond, this is going to be the C-Cube all over again, isn't it."

"No no no no!" He waves his hands somewhat frantically, trying to settle her before she leaps off to wreak havoc on his notes or, more likely, punch him in the face. "No, nothing so dangerous. In fact, it may be the salvation we have been searching for. Have no fear, Holly - I have changed, and for the better. I won't make those mistakes ever again." She narrows her eyes, but ignores the itching in her fist. Artemis' nose shall be spared...for now. "I expect it to be ready in a few months time."

"The Council won't be happy." It's more for a lack of anything to say than a real admonition. As if a group of crotchety old men could ever get in the way of his schemes.

"When are they ever?"

She relaxes back into the chair, grinning. They talk of nonsense for a little while longer, but eventually she spots the yawn he tries in vain to hide. Standing up, she cracks her joints. "Anyways, it's getting late. Time to fly." She goes over to the window, opening the doors and closing her eyes in bliss as the cool breeze plays over her skin. "Don't stay up too late, yeah?"

He rolls his eyes. "Yes mother."

With a little sigh she puts on her helmet, grimacing at how uncomfortably stuffy it is. She climbs up onto the windowsill, and as she launches herself into the air his voice drifts up towards her.

"With regards to your other question, Holly...whatever it takes. And it worries me." But before she can turn, before she can ask him how he knew -_ how does he always know? - _the window is closed, the curtains drawn, and she is plunged into darkness.

Later, tucked away in her office deep underground, she sits quietly with a hot cup of sim-coffee cradled in her hands. She swirls it gently, staring at the steaming black liquid as it goes round and round and round; the tiny whirlpool is almost hypnotic in her dazed state. The question still waits on her lips, and in the silence she whispers it, his answer echoing in her mind.

"How far will go to get what you want, Artemis, and at what cost?"


End file.
